


Crossovers

by azriona



Series: Advent Calendar Drabbles 2017 [1]
Category: Check Please! (Webcomic), Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: (from the YOI point of view anyway), Advent Calendar Drabble, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Background Victuuri - Freeform, Crossover, Eric Bittle also loves social media, Figure Skater Eric "Bitty" Bittle, Happy Ending, M/M, POV Outsider, Phichit Chulanont Loves Social Media, Social Media
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-12
Updated: 2017-12-12
Packaged: 2019-02-13 12:38:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,748
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12984252
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/azriona/pseuds/azriona
Summary: Eric Bittle never left competitive skating, never picked up a hockey stick, never went to Samwell.Instead, he went to Moscow... and ended up perpetually annoyed by Jack Zimmermann anyway. Funny how life works, ain’t it?





	Crossovers

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Tanouska](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tanouska/gifts).



> Day One of my Hanukkah Holiday Drabbles (which are Advent Calendar Drabbles, except only 8 for Hanukkah.) As always, I am lazy and titled the story with the prompt, but since crossovers are also a skating thing, I figured it worked. Tanouska asked for a Check Please/Yuri on Ice crossover. I might have gone a little overboard with Eric Bittle’s re-imagined backstory. Incidentally: the characters of Sofiya and Eva might be recognizable as actual people. But as I don’t write RPF, their names have been changed.
> 
> Not beta'ed or edited, all mistakes (but not the characters) belong to me. There are two prompts still available for the final two days of Hanukkah; if you'd like one, please [go here](https://azriona.dreamwidth.org/974541.html). (You shouldn't need a Dreamwidth account to leave a prompt.)

“You can’t be serious. Madison? Where the _fuck_ is Madison? No, of course I don’t know of any figure skating coaches in Madison! There isn’t even a _rink_ in—oh. _Hockey_. He can play _hockey_. You do not waste a talent like Eric Bittle on _hockey_. He’s a peanut! One check into the boards would crush him like an ant! Are you— _how dare you_! Figure skaters are every _bit_ as masculine as those sissy-eyed overgrown ninnies in hockey pads. Do you know what kind of force it takes to jump off the ice, rotate three times, and land without falling? _Without padding of any type_? I’d like to see your precious hockey players try it! And _yes_ your son has talent! I wouldn’t be wasting my time with him if he didn’t. He has every chance of going to Nationals next year – and what’s more, _placing_ there! Not a Senior-level… _he’s fifteen years old,_ he’s only barely _eligible_ to move up to Seniors! He has three more years before he doesn’t have a choice, and trust me, I am doing everything to make sure that when he moves, he’ll make the best damn American men’s figure skater the world has ever seen, Madison or no Madison! You want him to move away from here? You say he’s miserable here except for the skating? Give me ten minutes.”

Katya hung up her phone so hard, the base fell off the nail in the wall and would have shattered on the tile floor of her kitchen if she hadn’t caught it. After she put it back up again – muttering the entire time about the American obsession with football and toxic masculinity – she took a brisk walk around the block as her mutters slowly morphed from English back into her native Russian. By the time she was done with her walk, her Russian tongue was back, she’d formulated her plan, and she’d surely earned enough calories to treat herself to upgrade to a grande caramel mocha frappucino at Starbucks.

At home, Katya picked up the phone and dialed the number. It was a very long number – but then, international numbers always were.

It took a long time to ring. But then, international calls always did.

And when the familiar voice answered on the other side of the world, Katya heard the familiar cadence of her homeland, the comfortable _schlick schlick_ of skates on ice in the background, and knew that it was going to work out just fine.

“Sofiya,” said Katya, “you still want another student for your line-up, right? I have a student for you.”

*

The first rule of being Sofiya Giorgadze’s student, or so Eric Richard Bittle had always believed, was that one didn’t talk about being Sofiya Giorgadze’s student.

“She’s tough,” Eric would agree when reporters asked him what it was like to work with the Ice Queen. “I’m tougher.”

Eric had been fifteen when his family moved: his parents to Madison, he to Moscow. It’d been the toughest decision of his life, but also a dream come true. Train under a world-renowned figure skating coach in a country famed for its figure skating champions? _Yes, please_ , and don’t hold back on the cherries on top, neither. That had been five years ago – and Eric had never looked back.

Well. _Sometimes_ he’d looked back, usually every Christmas and summer when he went back to Georgia to visit his family. Twice a year, that was the promise Suzanne Bittle had demanded, and woe be to the figure skating coach who defied it. Even Sofiya didn’t dare deny Suzanne her God-given right to have her Dickey home for the holidays.

“Sofiya will be good to him,” Katya had assured Eric’s parents. “She and I are like sisters.”

Sofiya _had_ been good to him; Eric lived under her roof until he’d turned nineteen, a year after he’d switched from Juniors to Seniors under her tutelage. It’d been a fantastic debut, and he’d even made it to the Grand Prix final in his first year of Senior-level competition, even if he hadn’t won international gold.

Then again… in the age of Victor Nikiforov, Saint Petersburg’s answer to skating and Yakov Feltsman’s golden child, silvers were as good as gold. Eric had stood below Victor so many times he’d grown used to hearing Sofiya’s teeth grind from the sidelines as she fumed silently. Eric was never sure _why_ Sofiya hated Yakov Feltsman so much. He supposed it didn’t really matter.

“At least you can beat that brat Plisetsky,” Sofiya would grumble after every competition. “You did it in Juniors, and you’ll do it again when he moves up to Seniors next year, quad or no quad. And someday, Nikiforov will retire.”

Most of the time, Eric was grateful for the chance his old skating coach, Katya, had given him. Every time he went home to Madison to see his folks, he was reminded of how close he’d come to having been forced out of figure skating in the first place. The run-down ice rink in Madison let him have ice time for practice, and when he was there, Eric would run into the co-ed hockey team that would have been his only option. Sometimes he’d stay late and watch them practice a little bit, and wonder what might have happened if he’d refused Katya’s offer, and had instead remained Stateside, taken up hockey… finished high school in the States instead of homeschooling, gone to college… met a boy? Had a date? _Something_?

“I’m so proud of you, Bitty,” said Suzanne Bittle, every time she hugged him goodbye in the Atlanta airport, before he boarded the first of a series of planes that would take him back to Moscow.

“If you can’t win gold, at least set a world record,” said Coach, same as he always did. And Bitty laughed, same as he always did.

“Maybe when Nikiforov finally retires,” he said, rolling his eyes.

And sometimes – especially when he was in a Russian grocery store, bemoaning the selection of flours that never made a decent pie crust – Eric regretted it. Regretted leaving his home country, his school, his parents. He didn’t know Madison, didn’t have an innate knowledge of how to navigate his parents’ house in the dead of night without turning on a light. When he talked to his high school friends, he didn’t know what to say – they talked about college and keggers and forging signatures to talk their way into upper level classes. Eric’s world was full of ice and politics and all the thousands of ways skaters had to treat hip bruises so the stiffness would fade faster.

Five years, Eric had been training in Moscow. Five amazing, wonderful, heart-aching, lonely, unforgettable years.

The phone rang in his parents’ kitchen, one week after his second Worlds as a Senior skater. It had been a good season, really, even if Eric hadn’t made it to the Grand Prix Final, being edged out by Yuuri Katsuki, who seemed to have disappeared anyway. At least it’d led the way for Eric to win gold at Four Continents, and he’d just barely missed the podium under Chris and Otabek. (Victor being in first needed no explanation.)

“Hello,” said Eric, licking the spoonful of batter. One week visiting his parents, and he’d only _barely_ gotten through the list of things he’d been dying to bake.

“Eric,” said the scratchy voice of Sofiya from the other side of the world. “You need to come back. Everything’s changed.”

Eric frowned. “What? I’m not due back for another month. We agreed on that.”

“I know, but everything’s changed.”

“Is Plisetsky still coming up to seniors?”

“Yes, but it’s not that. It’s Nikiforov. He’s run off to Japan.”

“What?” Eric squawked, staring at the phone. “We were just _in_ Japan. Did he lose his gold medal?”

“I think he’s lost his _mind_ – but it doesn’t matter. He’s retired.”

“Sweet mother of God,” breathed Eric, and nearly dropped his spoon.

“Exactly. Come back. This is your year. You’re going to win the gold medal at the Grand Prix Final. And Worlds. And everywhere else that counts.”

*

Victor Nikiforov’s mental breakdown and subsequent decision to coach Yuuri Katsuki of Japan – because seriously, what else could it possibly have been? – was the skating soap opera scandal of the _decade_ , and Eric ate up every word of it in between skating practices and yoga practices and dance practices and Russian language practices.

Eric practiced his quad Lutz, and wondered if Victor was going to teach Yuuri the same thing.

Eric did downward dog, and wondered how Victor had managed to get Makkachin to Japan at all, considering how utterly ridiculous international pet transport laws could be.

Eric spun his partner in the air during a paso doble, and wondered what, exactly, Victor had seen in Yuuri Katsuki in the first place.

Eric conjugated irregular verbs in Russian, and wondered how much harder it would be to learn Japanese.

When Yuri Plisetsky was spotted posting Instagram pictures from Japan, it made the soap opera about twenty times better. At least, Sofiya was practically gleeful about it.

“That’s two of Yakov’s golden children down,” she said, rubbing her hands together.

It was almost annoying. “The only reason Plisetsky’s golden is because I wasn’t in Juniors anymore to stop him,” Eric reminded Sofiya.

“And if he stays in Japan much longer, he won’t have a hope of besting you in Seniors, either,” said Sofiya.

Not for the first – or second, or tenth, or a hundredth – Eric wondered _why_ Sofiya had it out for Yakov and all of Yakov’s students. If he’d thought Sofiya would enlighten him, he’d have asked. But personal questions had a way of resulting in longer practices, so Eric had long since stopped asking.

“With Nikiforov gone, everyone will be trying for gold,” mused Sofiya. “But they’ll have to go through you first. Of all of them, you’ve got the best chance of taking over Nikiforov’s seat.”

“JJ,” Eric reminded her.

Sofiya rolled her eyes. “ _JJ_.”

“He wants a clean sweep this year,” said Eric. “He might even do it.”

“Don’t make me laugh,” said Sofiya. “You left Georgia five years ago and for what? A pile of silver? No. This is _your_ year, and _your_ golds. Go out and bring them home.”

And with that, she sent Eric out to practice flying sit spins until he could do them eyes closed upside-down in his sleep while translating the Russian national anthem _backwards._

*

Eric had never much paid attention to Yuuri Katsuki before. Katsuki was four years older and had already been on the Senior Circuit by the time Junior-level Eric started competing at an international level. He might have been the best Japanese skater in figure skating – but that could be said for a lot of skaters of a lot of nationalities. Including Eric.

There wasn’t anything special about his training, either. After all, a lot of skaters left their home country to train, sometimes for years at a time. Including Eric.

And since Johnny Weir had come out, there were plenty more internationally ranked skaters who were out of the closet. Including Eric.

Now he was just another skater trying to get the golds that Victor Nikiforov was no longer going to earn. One of hundreds.

Including Eric.

There was absolutely no reason for Eric to be so fascinated by or jealous of Katsuki.

None at all.

(Or so he told himself even as he set up the Google notification.)

*

“This is my year,” boasted JJ Leroy at the Japan Open in mid-September.

“Uh-huh,” said Eric, glancing across the green room at the other competitors. He hadn’t _seen_ Yuuri Katsuki listed to compete, but the guy was Japanese, wasn’t he? And this was the _Japan Open_. Yeah, it was a Challenger series and not the Grand Prix – but it was _in Japan_. It wouldn’t have made sense for Katsuki _not_ to compete – or at the very least _show up_.

“I’ve got the music, the costumes, the choreography – and with Nikiforov out of the picture, I can’t possibly lose.”

“Except to me,” said Eric, still craning his neck at the competition.

“Better you than Plisetsky,” said JJ, lifting his fist for Eric to bump in solidarity. “Is he here?”

“No,” said Eric, disgruntled. “You’d think he’d _be_ here. I mean, he doesn’t even have the excuse of training outside his home country anymore.”

JJ frowned. “Huh? We’re talking about Plisetsky, right?”

“What? No, I was looking for Katsuki.”

“Katsuki?” JJ frowned. “He’s not going to be here, he had to compete in some block tourney last week or something. Don’t you follow Nikiforov’s Insta?”

Eric scowled and pulled out his phone, scrolling through the app. “You know I never remember to check Insta, and he never posts on Twitter. Oh, well, doesn’t that beat all. You’re right. _Phooey_.”

“Five years in Moscow and all you have to show for it is _phooey_ ,” said JJ.

Eric snorted, but he wasn’t going to rise to JJ’s bait when he had – oh, good _Lord_ – three weeks of Insta posts from Victor Nikiforov to catch up on. “I prefer to spend my time leaning _useful_ Russian instead of curse words, Mr. Leroy.”

 _Click_.

“Jack! Give a little warning next time!” called JJ good-naturedly to whoever had taken the photo.

“I like the candids,” said the easy-going voice.

The easy-going, _familiar_ voice. Eric had to stifle the groan. “Oh, Lord have mercy,” he muttered, with a quick glance at the man with the camera around his neck. “Did you just take a picture of me on my phone before a _competition_? Please tell me you are not going to post than online.”

“Er… yes?” said Jack Zimmermann. He looked somewhat befuddled as he fingered the camera in his hands. “I mean – yes, I took the picture, but I’m not going to post it.”

“Jack’s here as my official photographer,” JJ told Eric.

Eric’s eyes narrowed. “I thought you were at college. Playing curling.”

“Hockey,” said Jack. “I needed a semester-long project for my photography class.”

“I’m the subject,” JJ said in a pseudo-whisper as he elbowed Eric in the ribs.

“That photo better not appear anywhere but your class,” Eric warned Jack. “If Sofiya finds out I’m on my phone before a competition—”

Jack nodded. “I promise. My class only. Might not even make the final cut.”

“All right,” said Eric, but he still closed his phone and shoved it back in his bag, not wanting to take the chance. It wasn’t that he didn’t _trust_ Zimmermann… but the guy was weird. He showed up to most of JJ’s competitions, along with every other member of the Leroy clan. The only difference between Jack and the rest of the Leroys was that the Leroys as a whole were loud, exuberant, and overly enthusiastic about the ice and the first to glorify their own abilities on it.

Whereas Jack was quiet, close-mouthed, and Eric had never _once_ heard the guy utter more than the bare minimum of words necessary. Half the time he’d seemed downright _rude_ to Eric, reticent to the point that Eric began to wonder if the guy hadn’t been checked a few too many times in his hockey games.

(Which was _another_ reason why Eric was thankful he did figure skating and not hockey. If all those pads couldn’t protect a person from getting a mild concussion, what was the point? He’d take the sequins any day.)

“He’s going to come to all my competitions,” boasted JJ. “No better way to get behind the scenes, _JJ-Style_!”

Jack at least had the wherewithal to look embarrassed. Eric wrinkled his nose. “What, you don’t curl anymore?”

“Hockey,” Jack corrected him again. Honestly, the man had the sense of humor of a brick wall. “Most of the times work out with my schedule.”

“Lucky for him,” said JJ. “I’m a great subject. He’ll get an A for sure. I think we’ll make a book afterwards.”

Jack might have blushed. Eric couldn’t have cared less; his heart had started palpitations again. “Not with my phone pic,” he said quickly.

“No,” agreed Jack.

Eric nodded warily, not _entirely_ sure he could trust Jack, but he could already see Sofiya forging a path through the crowd. “I gotta go. See you on the podium, JJ.”

“I’ll be sure to save you spot right below me,” said JJ, cocky as ever.

Eric’s phone could have been burning a hole in his bag considering the way Sofiya was giving him a knowing glare. Eric tried to keep his expression as neutral and innocent as possible – not that Sofiya would have bought it. The woman knew him too well.

There was only one solution. Eric would have to steer as clear of Jack as humanly possible, lest the guy actually get a photo that would end up incriminating Eric, or more importantly, Eric’s cell phone.

*

“Okay, moment of truth,” said Eric, curling up in front of his laptop, a tiny bowl of way-too-expensive Ben & Jerry’s in his lap. “Winnipeg is colder, or not colder than Moscow.”

“Even,” said Eva Medunova, her voice a bit tinny over the laptop speakers. The screen was dark, but then again, so was Eva’s hotel room, but that was mostly because she was huddled under her blankets and clutching a pint of far-less-expensive Canadian-purchased Ben & Jerry’s in her own hands. Eric could still see the remains of the make-up the teenager had worn during her free skate that day. Sofiya undoubtedly knew of the ice cream, but Eva had won Skate Canada easily and surely had earned it. “Anyway, I’m only outside for maybe a minute. Mila says—”

Eric groaned. “Oh my lord, _Eva_. Eating ice cream in your room when Sofiya’s sharing it is one thing – but if she catches you hanging out with Mila Babicheva—”

“She’s not going to catch me because we’re not hanging out,” said Eva stubbornly. “We’re _texting_.”

“She’s going to check your phone messages,” Eric warned her.

“In _French_. Sofiya doesn’t know French.”

“ _You_ don’t know French.”

“JJ does,” said Eva. “We’re making it work.”

Eric wanted to facepalm, but the ice cream was too expensive to waste a single drop. “Well, tell Mr. Leroy that I saw his short program today, and it was marginally better than last month in Japan.”

“Tell him yourself! You have his number. Oh! His photographer asked after you.”

Eric frowned. “Jack?”

“Mm-hmm.” Eva licked her spoon. “He wanted to know if you were here. And where you were competing. And if you’d be at Rostelecom.”

Eric groaned. “Ugh. Did you tell him?”

“I don’t divulge information to stalkers,” said Eva primly. “Even when they cough up exact change for ice cream.”

“ _Eva_.”

“I didn’t! He’s cute, though.”

“He plays hockey,” Eric told her.

“Mmm,” said Eva thoughtfully. “Well. No one’s perfect. And if he ever destroys his nose, there’s always plastic surgery.”

*

“It is your gold and you are going to win it,” said Sofiya as they entered the stadium in Beijing. It was her tone that didn’t broker argument – not that Eric really wanted to argue. “No skater of mine loses to Yakov’s progeny.”

“Georgi Popovich?” Eric frowned. “He hasn’t scored higher than I have in two years.”

“No!” snapped Sofiya. “ _Yuuri Katsuki_.”

“Um,” said Eric. “Yuuri Katsuki isn’t Yakov’s.”

“He’s Victor, and Victor is Yakov’s. And you are going to beat him.”

“Okay,” said Eric, wondering again just how deep the hatred ran.

“ _Errrrrrrrriiiiiiiiiiiiiic_!” yelled a voice from across the lobby, growing louder with every beat, and then Eric was attacked by a blur wearing a dark blue jacket. “I thought you’d never show up, _oh my God,_ Eric! You look awesome! Did you frost your hair? _Did you see Johnny’s post last night_?”

“Hi, Phichit,” said Eric, trying not to laugh as the Thai boy began emitting a strange, high-pitched squeal that was already making Sofiya wince next to him. “Was this on Insta? You know I never check Insta.”

“Eric, I love you, but you’re _so_ 20 th century,” sighed Phichit, and instantly pulled out his phone.

Sofiya made a strange, strangled sort of noise in the back of her throat.

“Later,” said Eric quickly, pushing Phichit’s phone back to his chest. “You remember Sofiya.”

Phichit swallowed so audibly, Eric wasn’t sure that he hadn’t swallowed his entire brain stem. “Oh-yeah-hi-Sofiya-sorry-I-forgot.”

“Hmm,” said Sofiya. “I’ll go check you in.”

Phichit waited until Sofiya had gone halfway across the lobby before dragging Eric to a secluded bench and whipping out his phone again.

“I’m going to be in _so_ much trouble,” said Eric, holding the phone close and peering at the tiny figure of Johnny Weir on skates. “ _Woah_. Did he really do that?”

“Yup.” Phichit leaned in to watch.

“I’ve got to watch that again,” said Eric, tapping the phone.

“Later,” said Phichit. “You _have_ to see the photos I posted last night from the restaurant. Victor and Ciao Ciao got into a _drinking_ contest, it was _wild_. Victor kept trying to take his clothes off.”

“ _What_?” Eric let Phichit navigate to his Insta, and when the photos appeared, Eric’s mouth dropped open. “He let you _post_ these?”

“He didn’t say I couldn’t,” said Phichit innocently.

Eric gripped the phone and slammed it against his chest. “Phichit Chulanont,” Eric said sternly. “Are you telling me you posted naked pictures of _Victor Nikiforov_ on your Instagram _without his permission_?”

“He was drunk!” yelped Phichit. “I couldn’t exactly _ask_ him!”

“All the more reason not to post them!” hissed Eric. “Phichit! You _saw_ that memo from last year, didn’t you? The one where the ISU threatened about posting photos on social media of drunk skaters?”

“Yeah, but Yuuri’s not drunk, and Victor’s not a skater anymore,” said Phichit earnestly, pulling the phone away from Eric’s chest. “See? Totally sober.”

Which at least was _true_ , Eric reflected. Yuuri looked completely freaked out, though whether it was because Victor was half naked and hanging off of him, or because Phichit was photographing the event for posterity, Eric couldn’t tell.

He scrutinized the picture anyway. The last time Eric had seen Yuuri Katsuki had been a year and a half before at his very first Four Continents Competition. Eric had won bronze; Yuuri had landed in fifth and by all reports, had broken into tears in the bathroom afterwards, continuing his streak of crying at every competition he entered. No doubt there’d be tears at this competition, too. It was only a question of when.

The Yuuri in Phichit’s picture didn’t just look older than Eric remembered. He looked… _better_. Fitter. Slimmer. Stronger. And yeah, probably a bit more freaked out than was typical… but there was something about the way that Victor was hanging off of him, and the way that Yuuri was reacting. The longer Eric looked at the photo, the less it looked like Yuuri was freaking out about Victor’s nakedness, and more like he was _exasperated_ , as if it was a common occurrence and he was only annoyed that it was happening _again_.

“I never took Victor as a touchy-feely sort of person,” said Eric.

“Yeah, right? He was always so closed off before,” agreed Phichit. “Yuuri, too. It was weird, it’s like they couldn’t stop touching each other last night at dinner.”

Eric scrolled through the Insta absently. “Are they together?”

Phichit shook his head. “I don’t know. I don’t _think_ so? I mean, Yuuri’s said they aren’t, but… he’s kind of biased.”

“Uh, wouldn’t that mean he’d think they _were_?”

Phichit snorted. “For normal people? Yeah. For Yuuri, though? Have you _met_ Yuuri?”

“Not really.”

“Trust me,” said Phichit firmly. “Victor Nikiforov could dance the tango with Yuuri Katsuki and follow him halfway around the globe, and Yuuri _still_ would think it was about figure skating.”

The picture came up so suddenly that Eric dropped the phone. “Ah!” he yelled, scrambling as the phone fell on his lap. “ _Phichit!_ ”

“What?” Phichit picked up his phone and frowned at it. “Oh, these.”

“Yes, those!” hissed Eric. “Why do you have naked pictures of _Jack Zimmermann_ on your phone?”

“What?!?” yelped Phichit, squinting at his phone. “Wow, Eric! He’s out of focus and I can’t even see his face clearly – how’d you recognize him?”

Eric began to blush. “Never you mind that, Phichit Chulanont, explain to me why you have them at all!”

“It’s not my fault!” yelped Phichit. “I guess his hockey team had a game the next day, and he and his teammates showed up for practice. I wasn’t even taking pictures of them – look, Leo was doing this really dumb duck face with Guang Hong…” He peered at the photo. “I didn’t even _notice_ him until you pointed it out.”

“Well, as long as you didn’t post them,” said Eric firmly. When Phichit swallowed and didn’t answer, Eric sighed. “Fine. If you didn’t tag him, I’m sure no one else will notice either.”

“I’ll delete it,” Phichit promised, thumbs flying on his screen. He glanced at Eric. “So. Feeling particularly thirsty there?”

The noise Eric made in the back of his throat was particularly high-pitched, and Phichit snickered. “Too bad he’s not here, he could give Victor a shirtless run for his money.”

Eric snorted. “I’m not sure I’d want someone hanging off of me in the middle of a competition, but I’m very happy if it works for Katsuki.”

“Not too well, though,” agreed Phichit. “I’m winning gold here.”

“Not if I win it first,” promised Eric.

*

Eric was on the ice performing his free skate when Victor Nikiforov made a small scene by dragging Yuuri Katsuki out of the halls and down into the parking garage during the free skate competition.

He was sitting comfortably in first place when Phichit casually took it from him, as if they traded first place berths every day of the week.

“Always a bridesmaid,” said Phichit cheerfully when he found Eric in the back.

“Eh,” said Eric with a shrug. “There’s lots of season left.”

They were both watching from the competitor’s stands when Yuuri took the ice.

“Do his eyes look red to you?” asked Phichit.

“Huh,” said Eric. “I thought he cried _after_ the competition, not before it.”

And when the skate was over, and Yuuri was tackled to the ground by Victor Nikiforov, their lips pressed together as the flashbulbs went off all over the stadium – including from Phichit’s phone right next to him – Eric was in his chair, staring with a dropped jaw and a queer, empty feeling in his chest.

“ _Holy shit_!” shrieked Phichit. “ _Did that just happen?_ ”

All Eric could think was:

_Wow._

_That lucky bastard._

Sofiya leaned over to Eric.

“I know you want the gold, but don’t get any ideas about kissing _me_.”

“Ha,” said Eric.

*

The Kiss, capital letters included, was still all anyone could talk about when Rostelecom came around three weeks later. That it had been the first topic of whispered conversation at the Trophée Eric Bompard hadn’t surprised Eric overly much – after all, it wasn’t like anyone actually _needed_ to do a Google search for “figure skating scandals” to know exactly what was going to fill up the first three pages of results. A coach kissing his student after a good performance? This was cake on top of buttered popcorn on top of an ice cream sundae of happiness.

In Paris, where Eric had poked in kitchen supply stores and groceries with his mother when he wasn’t on the ice cinching his gold medal over Chris Giacometti and Georgi Popovich and thus his guaranteed entry into the Grand Prix Final in Barcelona, people had kept the talk down to whispers. It was all giggles and rumors, and Eric was almost surprised there wasn’t a betting pool given how everyone was trying to hide the fact that they were fascinated.

“It’s a ploy,” fumed Sofiya when the talk in the Rostelecom green room was _still_ about Nikiforov and Katsuki. “Yakov is trying to unnerve my skaters.”

“I’m not unnerved,” said Eric. “Annoyed, maybe.”

“I think it’s romantic,” said Eva. She was still flushed after the Ladies’ Short Program, where she was very comfortably settled in first place, and was busily repacking her bag with her skates and costume to return home for the evening. “I mean – love blooming before bad luck kept them apart for ages, and then all the sexual tension is released in one performance—”

“Eva,” warned Sofiya. Eva grinned but fell silent.

Eric frowned at Eva. “What are you talking about?”

“Are you going to stay and watch them?” asked Eva innocently. “The Men’s Short Program is in half an hour, isn’t it?”

“I’m staying, but only because JJ is skating, and I want to support him,” said Eric loftily. “I couldn’t care _less_ about what Mr. Katsuki and Mr. Nikiforov get up to when they’re not on the ice, and whatever it is, it shouldn’t affect how the gold in Barcelona is mine, anyhow.”

“Brava,” said Sofiya dryly. “Now, if you meant it, you’d be practicing.”

“I’m researching the competition,” said Eric.

“Maybe they’ll kiss again and bring it _back_ to the ice,” said Eva thoughtfully, right before Sofiya knocked the side of her foot against Eva’s thigh.

“Are you ready to go?”

Eva leaned over and kissed Eric on the cheek. “I’ll give you a thousand rubles if you wolf-whistle at Katsuki.”

“Payable up front,” said Eric primly, because he knew Eva would laugh and not pay him, which was just as well, since he had no intention of wolf-whistling Yuuri Katsuki.

JJ, now… just to throw him off… that was something else.

With only twelve competitors in the Men’s Singles competition, it wasn’t going to be a very long evening. The competitor’s viewing area was fairly empty, since everyone was either getting ready to skate, skating, or going through their post-skating euphoria or mental breakdowns. Eric settled in with a notebook, his cell phone, and a bottle of water, wishing he was brave enough to get some popcorn. Sofiya had spies everywhere, though. She’d have found out and skewered him before the evening was over.

Hot-headed, determined little Eva would have demanded to know why Eric didn’t go down into the green room to find JJ and wish him luck in person. “He’ll want to know you’re there and rooting for him,” she’d insist, and maybe she was right.

Eric knew JJ better than that, though. For as much as JJ liked having his fans and his support and hearing a thousand people chant his name or sing along to the inane music he’d written for his short program that year, he also needed his space. Eric could no more interrupt JJ’s pre-performance routine than he would make a pie crust with all lard and no butter.

“Mind if I sit here?”

Eric groaned. There was also the likelihood of running into Jack Zimmermann… but that ship had apparently sailed.

“It’s a free country,” said Eric, trying not to sound bitter. Out of the _entire damn section_ , and Jack Zimmermann _had_ to sit next to him?

Or rather, one chair _over_ from next to him. Well. At least he’d _asked_. Then again, he was Canadian. They weren’t all as brusque as JJ could be.

“I’d argue with you about the free country thing,” said Jack, “but mostly I’m annoyed there aren’t chicken wings at concessions.”

Eric hummed and hunkered down a bit further in his seat. “Aren’t you supposed to be taking pictures of JJ right now?”

“Probably,” said Jack. “But there’s only so many ways I can photograph JJ giving himself a pep talk in the mirror.”

Eric choked back a laugh. “Okay.”

Jack fiddled with his camera for a few minutes. Eric turned back to his notebook, trying to pretend that the silence wasn’t nearly as comfortable as it was – or that Jack wasn’t acting as a gravitational pull for his concentration.

When Jack spoke again, it was almost a relief. “I just… had to get out from back there. It’s kinda tense, you know.”

Eric glanced at him. “I haven’t been down there since the Ladies’ program ended.”

“Oh.” Jack shifted in his seat. “Just… those Russian and Japanese guys.”

“Nikiforov and Katsuki?”

“Yeah. Everyone’s either glaring at them like they might burst into flames or kiss again.”

Eric couldn’t help the chuckle, even as he twisted in his seat to look at Jack. “You saw that?”

“Kinda hard to miss,” said Jack wryly.

“Just… I didn’t think hockey players watched figure skating outside of JJ.”

Jack raised his eyebrow. “I didn’t think you remembered I play hockey and not curling.”

Eric flushed and twisted back in his chair. “Yeah, well,” he muttered. He glanced back at Jack.

“Congratulations on winning the Paris cup, by the way.”

“Trophée Eric Bompard,” Eric corrected him.

“Huh,” said Jack. “They named it after you and everything.”

Eric rolled his eyes. “Ha ha, Mr. Zimmermann. It’s a clothing company – really fancy sweaters and scarves and you probably don’t even care, do you?”

“That depends,” said Jack. “Do they have flannel?”

“Cashmere.”

“Yeah, but is it at least plaid? I have a national standard to uphold.”

Eric burst out laughing. “I have never _once_ seen JJ wear plaid.”

“Ever seen his underwear?”

The idea of _Jack_ and _underwear_ was enough to bring Phichit’s illicit locker-room photograph straight to the forefront of Eric’s mind.

Well. Not _straight_. But there it sat, strangely superimposed over Jack, and there was absolutely no possible way that Eric was going to be able to forget it.

Luckily, Jack didn’t seem to notice; he just kept on talking.

“To be fair, we were six,” said Jack.

Safer ground, certainly. “They _make_ plaid underwear for six-year-olds?”

“Mr. Bittle,” said Jack seriously, “you have been to Skate Canada. You can’t tell me you aren’t aware that they _don’t_.”

“Oh, Lord,” groaned Eric. “I am still too jet-lagged to follow all those negatives.”

On the ice, the first group finished their warm-ups. Eric glanced at his notebook and then the ice. “Damn,” he muttered.

“Sorry,” said Jack sheepishly. “I didn’t mean to distract you from your homework.”

“Not homework,” said Eric, distracted anyway as he flipped through his notebook. “I’m taking notes on the skaters most likely to get to the Final. Seung-gil’s up first, and I wanted to watch his warm-up but I guess that’s out of the question now.”

“Oh,” said Jack, surprised. “I sort of assumed you’d be in college. JJ is.”

“Yeah, well,” said Eric, glancing at the notes he’d already accumulated on Seung-gil, “not everyone’s as awesome as JJ.”

“I’m not sure anyone would call it awesome. He’s getting Cs and Bs.”

“Eek,” said Eric, glancing up. “Really? Huh.”

Jack shrugged. “He had a tough first year. It was his first year of college and second year in the Seniors, and I don’t think it occurred to him that college is harder than high school. He’s only taking two classes now, because he wants to focus on winning this year.”

“Huh,” said Eric, glancing out at the ice. “My dad’s mad about me not doing some kind of correspondence… but I know me. I’d ignore it and waste the money. And all the colleges here require way more Russian than I’ve got.”

“Yeah, I guess that’d make it harder,” agreed Jack.

“Maybe after I’m retired from skating. I don’t think I could do both sports and school at the same time.” Eric glanced at him. “One thing you probably do better than I do, Mr. Zimmermann.”

Jack shrugged. “It’s NCAA, though. I mean – school kinda makes my playing a sport possible? It’s not like it’s professional.”

“Technically, neither is this,” Eric pointed out.

Seung-gil’s music started so suddenly that Eric jumped in his seat. Jack immediately turned away, even though he was half-smiling, and let Eric pay attention. It was a technically sharp program, but Eric kept getting distracted by the sheer awfulness of the shirt.

“Please tell me there’s points deducted for the shirt,” said Jack, and Eric snickered.

“Only if there’s points deducted for skating to a song about yourself,” he said without thinking.  It was only when Jack snickered in response that Eric’s heart jumped in his chest. “Oh, _shit_ , I’m sorry, I wasn’t thinking—”

“What do you think we teased him about at Thanksgiving this year?” said Jack. Eric laughed out loud, which he didn’t _think_ was why Seung-gil fell on his axel, but Eric would no doubt have nightmares about Seung-gil’s possible retaliation for the rest of the season.

Seung-gil ended with a personal best. It was even better than Eric remembered from his tapes, and Seung-gil had a lot more personality in person than he did on a television screen. Eric was impressed – even as he was mentally comparing it to his own skate.

But he couldn’t help but look over to see what Jack thought.

Jack had a frown on his face.

“He’s got great footwork,” said Eric. “Probably one of the best, after Katsuki.”

“Hmm,” said Jack. “I’d like to see him in hockey blades. With a stick and a puck; I bet he’d be really good at getting by anyone blocking him.” He glanced at Eric. “Do you play?”

Eric shrugged. “No. Always seemed kind of violent.”

Jack jerked his head at the ice. “That’s not? I’ve seen some pretty spectacular wipe-outs this season already.”

“That’s different,” said Eric. “The only one responsible for me wiping out is me. With hockey, it’s five other guys all bigger than me who are responsible for wiping me out.”

“True. It’s not bad, though. I mean, pads.”

“Wimps,” said Eric. “You should see the bruises on my ass.”

Jack flushed as his mouth dropped open. “Ah—”

“Oh my Lord,” said Eric, suddenly realizing what he’d said. He slunk down in his seat and covered his face with his notebook.

Neither of them said a word through Emil Nekola’s short program, and every time Eric dared to look at Jack, he saw Jack sitting stiffly with such a direct focus on the ice that it was inconceivable that Jack could be looking in any other direction.

Even if Eric was _sure_ that at least half the time, Jack was looking at _him_ when Eric’s gaze had darted to the side.

“So,” said Jack, as Emil left the ice and Michele Crispino started his brief warm-up lap, “how was that guy? I mean on the ice. Not in bed. I’m not assuming you know what he’s like in bed.”

Eric wasn’t sure if he wanted to die or laugh. “Well, it was one of Emil’s better performances, but I’m not too worried he’ll make it to the Grand Prix. Maybe by Worlds he’ll be in a better position for the podium. Also he’s straight and he’s in love with Michele Crispino’s sister.”

“Oh,” said Jack. “Okay. Why not Michele?”

“Well,” said Eric, pointing to the man on the ice, “ _that’s_ Michele. He’s also in love with his sister, incidentally.”

“Ah,” said Jack, coloring. “Wow. And here I thought Nikiforov and Katsuki had the most fascinating relationship in figure skating.”

“Oh, please, honey,” sighed Eric, “that’s not even the _half_ of it. Wait until you get to the pairs and ice dancers. Those guys all weave _extremely_ tangled webs.”

By the time they reached the final three skaters of the evening, Eric had almost forgotten his initial annoyance by Jack’s intrusion – and instead was annoyed because the earlier skaters were beginning to join them in the stands. They were no longer alone, and nearly everyone wanted to talk to either Eric or Jack. Sara Crispino especially seemed to want to talk to Jack, leaning over a seat and blinking her wide violet eyes at him. Eric glared at her and wondered about colored contacts and how Jack could actually be _fooled_ by them.

Emil was giggling when Yuuri Katsuki took to the ice for his warm-up.

“What?” snapped Eric.

“You’re looking at Sara the same way Michele is looking at Jack,” said Emil, amused.

Eric almost choked and fell out of his seat.

“Eric? You okay?” asked Jack, worried. Eric almost didn’t notice that he moved over a seat closer to Eric while Sara hung over the seat mid-word and flustered.

 _Almost_.

“Fine! I’m fine,” squeaked Eric, and considered just dying because it was easier. “Um. Yeah. Let’s watch Katsuki.”

“It’s a plan,” said Emil cheerfully. “Hey, Sara, come sit by me, the view’s great.”

“ _Stop talking to her!_ ” hissed Michele.

The average human can hold their breath for two minutes.

But Eric leaned forward without even thinking about it, and would have been able to swear on a stack of Bibles and Suzanne Bittle’s home-made whole wheat bread that he held his breath for the entire three and a half minutes of Yuuri Katsuki’s Eros program.

But it had nothing to do with Katsuki, and _everything_ to do with watching Katsuki’s Eros program with Jack sitting right next to him.

In Beijing, Eric had watched Eros and thought it good. He’d liked the way that Katsuki had moved with the music, a seductive dance on ice that was clearly as playful as it was enticing. It’d been sexual love, yes – but sexual love as seen through a cautious lens. It wasn’t that Katsuki was innocent: it was that Katsuki wasn’t fully prepared to embrace the seductive possibilities.

That wasn’t the case in Moscow. Maybe all Katsuki had needed was a good kiss.

Eros in Moscow was no longer playful, but determined. It was no longer enticing, but bewitching. Every twitch of his fingers, every roll of his hips, every hooded look and the way his hands skimmed his body….

This was Yuuri Katsuki, not just out to demonstrate sexual love.

This was Yuuri Katsuki turning to a Moscow still giggling about a kiss and saying, “No, actually, _fuck you_ ”, and expecting the response to be, “ _Thank you sir, may I have another._ ”

And boy howdy, did Eric want another. The problem was…

His heart pounded in time with Jack’s breath.

His skin tingled and sparked every time that Jack’s fingers twitched.

His thighs ached where one side was pressed up to Jack’s – hotter than a Georgia summer and _Lord have mercy_ , but Eric thought he’d have to stay in his seat for the rest of _time_ , because no way in _hell_ was he going to stand up now when Jack might get the wrong idea.

Or the right idea, which could be worse.

No – worse would be _Michele Crispino_ seeing it and getting the wrong idea about who his inconvenient truth was saluting, because Eric wouldn’t have put it past the guy to find some Mafia connection and exploit it. Hell, even if Crispino _wasn’t_ Mafia (and Eric knew not every Italian was), he knew Crispino would find a way to avenge any hint that someone might find Sara Crispino inspiration in _that_ particular way.

For some reason, the thought of Michele Crispino on a revenge-filled rampage was enough to calm everything down somewhat. By the time the audience erupted into applause, Eric was able to consider standing up again maybe in another hour or two instead of the next century.

“Wow,” said Jack next to him. He sounded… strange. Strangled. “And then he kissed him, huh?”

Eric wanted to hoot with laughter, but he wasn’t sure how it’d have come out. Probably entirely too demented. “No, that was the _other_ program.”

“Huh.” Jack’s swallow was audible. “Okay. Guess that’ll be interesting to see.”

 _Not nearly_ , thought Eric. He loved Katsuki’s free skate, but the reaction didn’t hold a candle to what he was experiencing now.

Really, he just needed a distraction. Something to take his mind off the constriction in his pants and the way that Jack’s fingers were extremely long and thick and a little bit square at the tips, nails nice cut close to the quick and probably very talented when touching—

“Oh _merde_ ,” said Jack, suddenly on guard – or maybe looking for his own distraction. Jack leaned forward in his seat.

“What?” said Eric, almost eagerly, pretending that hearing Jack speak in French was _not_ actually a turn-on. Of course not. People spoke French all the time to discuss boring things, like plumbing and how much milk to buy and where the nearest bed or lockable broom closet could be located.

Jack’s voice was grim. “The old guy’s glaring at Nikiforov and Katsuki again.”

“Huh?” Eric peered. “Oh. That’s Yakov Feltsman. He’s Yuri Plisetsky’s current coach, and Victor Nikiforov’s _old_ coach. Yuri’s up next.”

“Oh, yeah. He was at Skate Canada. He’s pretty good.”

Eric scoffed. “He’s a _kid_. He jumps big, but that’s _all_ he is – he doesn’t have the artistry or the stamina to make it through a whole season in the big leagues without crashing and burning. He’s not even done growing yet. Moving up to the Senior Circuit this year was a mistake, and he’s going to find that out the hard way.”

The tension shifted; Eric wasn’t quite sure how or why, but suddenly Jack wasn’t quite so open or at ease as he’d been.

“Teenagers make mistakes all the time,” he said stiffly, bending over to reach his camera. “You don’t have to condemn them for it.”

Eric bit his lip, glancing at the way Jack looked so closed-off now. Eric glanced back at the ice, where Yuri Plisetsky was listening along with the rest of them as Yuri Katsuki’s scores were read, putting him solidly in first place.

Jack spoke again just as Yuri was taking his opening pose. “His coach has been staring daggers at Nikiforov and Katsuki all night.”

It’s almost as if Jack is trying to get back to neutral ground. To Eric’s surprise, he’s more than willing to follow. “That doesn’t surprise me.”

“It’s like he’s getting ready to yell at him, his face goes all red and then he starts coughing and choking and storms off in another direction. And Nikiforov acts like he doesn’t see it at all, but I’m pretty sure Katuski does.”

“Huh,” said Eric, because it was surprisingly easy to picture Yakov Feltsman doing exactly that, although Eric couldn’t say if it was Yakov falling into old habits or if the old fart is still pissed off that Nikiforov retired at all. The music for Yuri’s Agape was soothing, if a little heavy with the organ. It wasn’t something Eric would have chosen for Yuri – but it made sense for what _Nikiforov_ would have chosen for him. Always trying to prove a point by defying expectation.

“I’m supposed to beat him this season,” said Eric, watching Yuri glide across the ice.

Jack’s glance was quick and didn’t go unnoticed. “You don’t want to?”

“Oh, I want to,” said Eric. “But only because I’d like to win, and that means beating him.” He paused. “It can be done. He’s not Victor Nikiforov _yet_.”

“I’d think that would be Katsuki,” said Jack. “Since he left Russia to coach him and all.”

There was a lot to that _and all_ , and not that it should matter, but… “Maybe,” said Eric, but he’s not sure the idea sits well. “He’s older.”

“I’m older,” Jack pointed out.

“Can you do a triple axel?”

“I’m not even sure what makes a triple axel a triple axel, apart from spinning around three times.”

“Three and a half, actually.”

Jack shrugged. “I’m older than all of my teammates. Sometimes older isn’t a disadvantage.”

 _But that’s hockey_ , Eric thought as Yuri spun on the ice. He was young and fast and had no control whatsoever, and Eric was close enough that he could see the grimace as Yuri tried to hold his position without slipping. It was a program about loving acceptance, but Eric thought Yuri spent more time battling his way through it than accepting anything.

“Figure skating’s different,” said Eric, watching as Yuri landed one of his quads. “You do _that_ too many times, you end up destroying your knees.”

“Hockey players and teeth,” Jack reminded him.

Eric laughed. “Maybe that’s why I keep thinking you play curling, Mr. Zimmermann. Your smile is too nice for hockey.”

Jack’s eyes crinkled as he smiled. “You think I have a nice smile?”

Eric’s heart was in his throat. “I… JJ’s up,” he blurted out, and immediately wanted to hit himself over the head with a folding chair, the way Jack’s face flashed with sudden confusion and disappointment. The exact opposite of the smile he’d grown to like.

The audience burst into applause as Yuri’s program ended; with a start, Eric realized he hadn’t made a single note in his notebook. The noise seemed to wake Jack up, too. He quickly leaned over and started to rummage in his camera bag.

Eric had a terrible time during JJ’s skate – but it had nothing to do with JJ’s skate, which despite the ridiculous music was still a good program. Eric’s problem was that he was _trying_ to watch… but kept getting distracted by Jack, who had started shifting in his seat, taking pictures not only of JJ on the ice – but zooming in on the audience from a distance. Eric frowned, watching him.

“What are you doing?” he asked halfway through the program.

Jack glanced at him. “I’ve got this idea for overlapping photos, post-production. So JJ’s skating on the ice, but his fans are super-imposed on it.”

Eric can still see the vestiges of shirtless Jack over clothed Jack. “Okay.”

Jack lowered his camera. “It’s for class.”

“I know it’s for class,” said Eric quickly.

“If this is about the photo I took of you—”

“It’s not—”

“I’m not using it,” blurted out Jack.

“Okay,” said Eric, confused. “Was it bad?”

“No. Yes. I mean—” Jack sighed, and ran his hand through his hair. “It was fine. But I know how you felt about me showing it to people, so… I’m not using it.”

“Oh,” said Eric slowly. He glanced down at his notes – not that he’d taken many. “You can. If you want.”

Jack frowned. “You seemed really worried about it before.”

“Well,” said Eric dryly, “I’d rather my coach not see me on a cell phone before a competition. She’s got a thing. But – you said you’re not going to use it except in class, right? So she’d never see it. And…”

Eric almost said the words without thinking about them first – but the moment he knew he was going to say them, he almost tripped over them in his surprise.

_Wow._

“I trust you.”

Jack’s eyes went wide, and his mouth opened. “You—?”

There was the familiar sound of blades hitting the ice, and the crowd burst into applause.

“Damn,” swore Jack, and picked up his camera again to continue photographing.

But Eric could see the way Jack kept glancing at him in between photographs. It was hard not to pay attention to him; to keep his own focus squarely on what he was there to do.

The only problem was… Eric wasn’t sure any longer why he was there at all.

 _I could be at my own rink practicing,_ Eric scolded himself. _I could be at home resting or even watching this on TV – I’d have a better view of the skating even! But instead I’m here, even though I knew Jack would be here._

_Or… maybe… because?_

JJ finished, the crowd erupted into cheers, and there was a collective sigh from the skates in addition to the customary resigned applause for a skate well done by a person most of them didn’t particularly _like_.

“I can see the headlines now,” said Emil cheerfully. “ _Is JJ Leroy the new Victor Nikiforov_?”

“As if his ego isn’t bad enough already,” groaned one of the French skaters a few rows down.

“Oh, _stop_ ,” Eric scolded them, thoroughly conscious of Jack sitting next to him. “He’s a good skater, he works hard, and if he wins gold tomorrow—”

“ _If_ ,” scoffed Georgi Popovich.

“Then he’ll have deserved it,” countered Eric, his ire rising a little bit. Nothing to do with Georgi being Yakov’s and therefore Eric’s sworn enemy. Eric was not nearly as petty as Sofiya nor did he have an issue with poorly done makeup.

“We know he’s your friend, you don’t have to stand up for him,” said the French skater sourly.

“You’re right. Him being my friend doesn’t mean I _have_ to stand up for him,” snapped Eric. “But I _will_ , because you’re _wrong_.”

The French skater glared at Eric – but didn’t say a word. Instead, he stood up and shouldered his bag and left the stands with several other skaters, who grinned at Eric and gave him a thumbs up anyway.

“How’s it go?” asked Emil, turning to Eric, and trying to make a snapping motion as he shimmied his body a bit.

Eric was still too riled up to grin easily. “I think you have it backwards.”

“I’m not sure it matters,” said Jack.

“Don’t listen to him, he curls,” Eric told Emil. “He wouldn’t know artistic ability from a broomstick.”

“They actually use broomsticks in curling,” offered Jack, standing up. “So, I might.”

Eric stared at the packed camera bag in dismay, wondering when Jack had put everything away. “Oh. I – yeah. I guess you need to go photograph JJ’s victory dance.”

“If it involves chickens, please put it on the internet,” said Emil seriously.

“I – okay,” said Jack, blinking at Emil, before turning to Eric. “Thanks for sitting with me.”

“Yeah, sure,” said Eric, almost at a loss. “Same bat time, same bat channel, tomorrow, right?”

Jack smiles. “You don’t mind?”

“Nah,” said Eric. “Maybe I can get you to recognize the difference between a triple flip and a triple toe loop.”

Jack laughed. “Okay. Tomorrow.”

Eric watched as Jack left the seating area. There wasn’t any point in rushing; the crowds would be thick around the arena for at least another half hour, to say nothing of the crush of people in the subway. Better to wait for it to thin out before Eric tried to get home.

He wasn’t the only one to linger. Emil lagged behind the arguing Crispino twins, and as soon as they were headed out, he leaned over to Eric.

“So… who _was_ that hunk?”

Eric rolled his eyes. “He’s not a hunk. He’s JJ’s cousin.”

“I stand corrected,” said Emil, amused. “Because anyone related to JJ cannot possibly be considered a _hunk_.”

Eric sighed and started to pack his bag. “I don’t even know where you learned your English, Mr. Nekola.”

“He _is_ cute though,” said Emil. “Hoping he’ll tackle you for a kiss on the ice in Barcelona?”

Eric squeaked as his mouth dropped open. “Mr. Nekola! I am _not_ looking for a boyfriend! And anyway – Jack’s _straight_.”

“So’s Mickey,” said Emil.

“Emil!” Michele’s voice shouted from below, irritated and clearly on edge from having to defend Sara’s honor from all of Russia (save, of course, the lovebird coaching the Japanese guy currently in second place). “Are you coming?”

“On my way, _miláčku_ ,” Emil called back sweetly. He turned to wink at Eric. “Love wins!” [sweetheart in Czech]

“I don’t think that’s what that phrase means!” Eric shouted after him.

*

Eric woke up in the morning to find Eva on his doorstep, two take-away Starbucks coffees in her hands, one of which she immediately shoved at Eric. The other already had a dark lipstick print on the rim. Sofiya only allowed fancy Starbucks drinks on performance days – and Eva was clearly wasting no time with her mocha soy lattes.

“Where is he?” demanded Eva. “Is he here? You’re in your pajamas. Why are you in your pajamas? Did I interrupt anything interesting?”

“Where’s who?” asked Eric blankly. He only barely got out of the way when Eva stalked right past him and into the apartment. “And why are you – oh fudge in a _mud_ bucket, _what time is it_?”

Eric lunged for his cell phone as Eva reverently mouthed the mild curse words to commit them to memory. Sure enough, the screen on his phone remained dark no matter how hard he pressed the buttons. “I missed my morning ice time.”

“By two hours,” said Eva, pulling up her own cell phone. “And this is who.”

She turned the phone around to show Eric a grainy photo on Twitter. Eric was even tagged on the photo. _Spotted @omgquadsplease at #Rostelecom – talking to @JackZimmermann from #SamwellHockey!_

“He’s Jack Zimmermann,” said Eric. “From Samwell Hockey. Who _took_ that?”

Eva shoved the cell phone back in her pocket. “Are you in love with him?”

“Don’t be dramatic,” Eric scolded her as he plugged in his phone and waited for the charger to give him enough power to turn it on. “We were just talking.”

“Mm-hmm. And Victor Nikiforov and Yuuri Katsuki were just coaching.”

“They _are_ coaching. Well, one of them is coaching. And don’t even pretend that the coaching is about anything other than figure skating, I can see you already figuring out how to say it in English.”

“I can say it in Russian,” said Eva sweetly.

“Honey,” said Eric, with as much sass as he can manage, because sometimes that was the _only_ way to deal with Eva, “I can say it in Russian and make your _ears_ burn off with the sex appeal.”

Eva laughed and curled up on a chair. “Are you gonna see him again?” she asked, eyes sparkling.

Eric knew full well what Eva was doing, and liked her too much to deny her the fun of it. “No, I’m going to head to the rink and beg forgiveness for missing my ice time and see if they can work me in later today instead.”

“Yeah, and _then_ are you gonna see him again?”

Eric patted her on the head. “Stop quoting Sherlock at me. I’m taking a shower. Go eat some toast.”

“That wouldn’t really go well on a t-shirt,” said Eva cheerfully.

Eric chuckled and headed back to his bedroom – only to turn at the last moment and lean back into the room. Eva was already gleefully going through her phone with the surety of someone in an Sofiya-free zone.

“We’re going to watch the free skate together tonight.”

He could hear Eva’s squeals of laughter even as he closed the door.

*

By the time he came out of the shower, though, her squeals had turned to shock. His newly recharged cell phone wouldn’t stop beeping with incoming messages, but first and foremost was the look of horror and dismay on Eva’s face.

“Victor’s flown back to Japan,” she said the moment he stepped out of his room. “And Yakov’s coaching Yuuri in his place.”

Eric stared at Eva – and then at his phone, already dancing across the counter with the ringtone reserved for Sofiya.

“Well,” he said. “This’ll be interesting.”

*

Five years ago, Eric had been initially surprised how welcoming the Moscovites were to a teenaged figure skater from America. It wasn’t that he’d expected Russians to be closed-off or dismissive of him, but more than he expected them to see him as Other: other nationality, other culture, other skater taking up Russian time and energy and winning for the United States and not Russia.

As it turned out, that wasn’t what Eric found at all. The Russian skating community welcomed him with open arms and excited smiles. They cheered for his successes and sympathized with his losses, and if he wore American colors on his warm-up jacket… well, then, he was still a shining example of what Russian training could do.

It never occurred to him to expect anything else from figure skating fans – and maybe that was why he never saw it, either.

“It’s not right,” complained the man checking his pass at the door that evening when he arrived at the arena. Five years of immersive Russian had turned Eric into a competent speaker – at least as far as figure skating, grocery shopping, and kitchen-supply stores were concerned. “Leaving his student in the middle of a competition! Yakov surely taught our Vitya better than this. It’s a disgrace, he should be ashamed.”

“I’m sure he had a very good reason,” said Eric. He hadn’t had _many_ interactions with Victor Nikiforov over the years – the rivalry between Yakov and Sofiya precluded any sort of camaraderie between their students, and Eric wasn’t going to count the secret pen-pal thing Eva had going with Mila Babicheva – but Victor had never seemed like the kind of guy who would leave anyone in the lurch on purpose.

“Katsuki is such a _sensitive_ boy,” worried the woman at the concession stand. “He’s too hard on himself, and without our Vitya here to temper him – oh, I shouldn’t like to think how he’ll do.”

“It’ll be all right,” said the other woman working the booth. “You’ll see – our Vitya will have taught him how to be strong.”

Eric thought Katsuki was probably already strong without Nikiforov – there was a strength in coming back to competitions time and time again even when you couldn’t stop crying at them – but maybe the woman was right. Glass hearts had a tendency to break without warning.

“He’s in second place, he’s got a good head start,” said the woman who checked Eric’s pass to make sure he was allowed to sit in the skater’s section. “It’s terrible that our Vitya had to leave him, it’s not something anyone would want. But he just needs to stay focused! I’m sure he’ll do very well and make our Vitya proud.”

“I’m sure he will,” said Eric.

The woman, however, kept going. “It’s our Yuri I’m worried about. It’ll break his heart, poor child, if he doesn’t make the podium!”

Eric had somewhat less sympathy for Yuri Plisetsky. “Well,” he said, “anything can happen.”

There were plenty of people in the skaters’ stand already, but the entire top row was empty. Eric took the seat on the aisle, wondering if saving a place for Jack was folly or merely thinking ahead. He only understood about half the conversations around him now, which was an international cacophony of multiple languages, but he could catch the names being thrown around pretty easily.

Nikiforov and Katsuki. Victor and Yuuri. Vitya and a thousand names that began with _Yu_ and ended with some other syllable. Eric didn’t need to understand what they meant, because there wasn’t any doubt _who_ they meant – or what they were talking about.

Victor Nikiforov had up and left his student alone in the middle of a competition, and the reaction from the skating community seemed to match the reaction from everyone else.

 _What a horrible thing for Victor to do, we don’t know what he was thinking, there must have been a good reason though we can’t think of what it was._ And _Katsuki will be all right, he’s a strong skater, he’s skated without a coach beside him before, and okay fine maybe he flubbed every time he did but surely he’s better now that Victor’s been coaching him… right?_

“Hey,” said Jack, appearing as if by magic at Eric’s elbow. The camera bag was slung over his shoulder, and he had take-away coffee cups in his hands. “I wondered if I’d find you here.”

Eric looked up and squinted; one of the stadium lights was just behind Jack’s head, and it was hard to focus. “Well, hello, Mr. Zimmermann. I was just wondering if I should save you a seat.”

Jack smiled. “Yeah, sure. I have to go back down for JJ’s skate, but I can watch almost everyone else with you. And it’s Jack.”

“I know,” said Eric, scooting over so that Jack could have the aisle, “but my parents taught me to be polite to my elders.”

Jack chuckled and sat next to Eric. “I brought you a tea. I thought about coffee, but I wasn’t sure about nutritional plans—”

“Coffee only on competition days,” said Eric, touched anyway. “And then all the pumpkin lattes I can drink.”

Jack chuckled and handed him a cup. “Is black tea okay?”

Eric took it, and tried to ignore the fact that his fingers brushed Jack’s. “Yes. Thank you.”

The next hour flew, as Eric schooled Jack on how to tell one jump from the next, and Jack explained what all the different lines on the ice meant in terms of hockey. Eric’s notebook lay forgotten in his bag; Jack’s camera sat ignored on his lap.

It wasn’t until Yuri Plisetsky was up to skate that Jack began to glance at the kiss-and-cry, where Yuuri Katsuki could be seen in his purple costume, head turned down as if he was meditating in silence.

“JJ’s up soon,” said Eric.

“Yeah,” said Jack slowly. “I was just thinking how much lonelier figure skating is than hockey.”

Eric sat up a bit straighter. “Well, you’re on the ice with a team, for one.”

“Yeah, but – we all speak the same language. One of my dad’s best friends from the Pens was Russian, barely spoke a word of English, but he always said they spoke hockey to each other and did just fine. Look at Katsuki – he’s surrounded by people, but not a single one of them is talking to him.”

“Some skaters don’t want conversation before they get on the ice,” explained Eric. “You have to get in a certain headspace, you know?”

“Maybe.” Jack sounded doubtful. “I saw Katsuki yesterday with Nikiforov, though. He was quiet then, too – but he let Nikiforov in. Always touching, always a smile, however brief. Always responding. Always talking to him. It was kinda sweet. The way he is now?” Jack shook his head. “It’s not right. _He’s_ not right. Whatever headspace he’s in, it’s not a good one.”

Eric bit his lip and looked back down at Katsuki. He could see it now – the slump to his shoulders, the way he folded in on himself. The way that Yakov kept glancing over to him, sharing the time between Yuri on the ice who did not need him just them, and Katuski next to him, who so very clearly did. It looked to Eric like Yakov was waiting for an entry, a way to break through to Katsuki and say whatever he needed to be said… but couldn’t determine _how_.

 _Oh_ , thought Eric, in a swirl of emotions that he couldn’t quite name. He tried to imagine what it’d be like, standing in the middle of a maelstrom, unable to reach anyone, and knowing he’d have to step up and perform at his absolute best, without the touchstone of Sofiya’s steadfast confidence and determination to ground him.

He couldn’t. He’d be as lost on the wind as Katsuki was.

Yuri’s skate was beautiful. Eric couldn’t pay attention either, watching Katuski and sick with worry over what will happen when he stepped onto the ice.

“I should go,” muttered Jack as Yuri’s program ended and JJ appeared in the Kiss-and-Cry.

“Yeah,” said Eric.

Katsuki stepped on the ice. Yakov was talking to him, but it didn’t look like Katsuki could hear a word.

“Now, that’s just rude,” said Eric, almost irritable. “Ignoring his coach like that.”

Jack shrugged. “Maybe he’s better off. It’s not like Yakov likes him.”

“Yakov hates everyone,” said Eric absently, still frowning at Katsuki.

“I’d do the same,” said Jack shortly. “You can’t listen to the crowd when you’re already stressed enough – and a crowd like this, out for Katsuki’s blood? He’s better off in his bubble.”

“What?” Eric twisted in his seat to frown at Jack. “Where’d you get an idea like that? The only person people are upset with is Victor, for leaving him here alone.”

Jack frowned. “That’s not what Katsuki thinks. I overheard him earlier in the bathroom. He thinks everyone in Russia hates him.”

“No one _hates_ him. How can he think that?” exclaimed Eric.

Jack shrugged. “When you think you’re alone, it can be hard to hear what people are actually saying, and not what your brain tells you they should.”

Eric shook. “That doesn’t even make _sense_. They’re calling his _name_ , Jack. They’re supporting him. How can he not hear that?”

Jack’s face darkened. “Sometimes they call your name because they want to see your expression when you fall.”

The music started; it was too late for anything else, and Eric twisted back to watch Katsuki skate.

Watching Katsuki skate was painful, especially knowing what Jack had just said. Eric could see the strain on Katsuki’s face, the way his legs shook and the winces when he didn’t make a landing.

 _He thinks he’s alone_ , thought Eric, leaning forward and watching as he bit his bottom lip. _Really alone. He thinks we all hate him._

Around him, Eric could hear the other skaters murmuring in sympathy, an entire section of people who looked at Katsuki and thought, _There but for the grace of God_.

_I thought I was alone, my first few months here. When I didn’t speak Russian very well, when I missed home so bad it hurt. But at least I had Sofiya, and I knew she’d hug me when I came off the ice, no matter how badly or well I’d done._

_Katsuki doesn’t even have that._

The support is just as strong from outside the skaters’ section, too – every round of applause when Katsuki landed on the ice, every gasp and cheer and noise meant to bolster his confidence and not tear it down.

 _They want him to win for Victor_ , thought Eric. _Maybe as badly as he probably does._ _And he doesn’t even feel it._

When Katsuki finished his program and collapsed on the ice, Eric gasped and covered his mouth with his hands. The applause was tremendous and loving and full of support, but on the ice, there was no indication that Katsuki was aware of it at all.

_I can’t imagine doing what he just did. Going out there without even my coach to welcome me back. Thinking that no one is on my side…._

“Do you think—?” Eric began, turning to Jack.

Jack wasn’t there.

The rest of the sentence died in Eric’s throat. He had to swallow a couple of times to keep it from coming out anyway, working backwards, trying to figure out when Jack would have left.

_When did I start expecting him to be sitting next to me?_

Eric turned to the Kiss-and-Cry – and yes, there he was, camera slung around his neck, taking pictures of JJ as he smiled and stepped out onto the ice. Jack didn’t even look up at Eric, lost in his own work.

A little ways down, Yuuri Katsuki stepped off the ice to where Yakov was waiting to walk him to where they’d wait for their scores. No hug. No smile. No touch at all.

Eric slumped down in his seat, troubled and hurting, and wishing Jack would look at him just _once_.

Jack never looked up at all.

*

JJ won, which didn’t surprise anyone. Eric laughed when JJ nearly dropped the bouquet of flowers on the podium in an effort to flash his JJ-Style hands at the camera. Given the way JJ glared at the stands, Eric was sure he heard it.

He was on his way out of the stadium to the Metro when he saw Jack with JJ on the other side of the lobby. JJ was still riding high on his win, taking pictures with fans and helping them get their hands in the right positions for a JJ-style hand gesture. Eric grinned and shook his head, knowing he should go over and congratulate him—

But there was Jack, off to the side, watching with the customary neutral expression. A month ago, Eric would have assumed it was disdain. Now… he wasn’t not so sure.

_How did he put it? It’s hard to hear what people are saying instead of what you think they should be saying – especially when you think they hate you already._

_Does Jack think I hate him?_

Eric watched as the trickle of people walked around him, muttering and sighing about his blocking the sidewalk. He didn’t realize he was staring until he felt Jack staring right back at him, and then his stomach did a jump as Jack raised a hand in farewell.

Eric tried to smile, though Jack might have been too far away to see it, and raised his own hand in goodbye.

 _Or something, I guess_ , he thought.

He hadn’t gone more than ten steps before his cell phone _dinged_ with a Twitter notification.

DM From: Jack Zimmermann - @JackZimmerman  
  
**Jack:** Hey. Sorry I didn't get to say goodbye earlier.  
  


Eric didn’t stop walking.

Instead, he grinned – and typed back a reply.

*

DM From: Jack Zimmermann - @JackZimmerman  
  
**Jack:** The Starbucks at Moscow Airport doesn't have pumpkin lattes. I asked.  
  
**Eric:** I know, it’s a travesty. Also it’s called Sheremetyevo.  
  
**Jack:** I asked them for a Sheremetyevo latte and they laughed at me.  
  
**Eric:** Of course they laughed at you. Sheremetyevo is the name of the airport, not how you say pumpkin in Russian!  
  


*

DM From: Jack Zimmermann - @JackZimmerman  
  
**Eric:** Ugh, I hate early morning practice. Sofiya had me up at 4am to work on my spins. I'm going to spend the rest of my day dizzy.  
  
**Jack:** Could be worse. You could be up at 4am teaching one of the frogs to take a check.  
  
**Eric:**...Why are you giving amphibians money at 4am? Or was that Canadian slang?  
  
**Jack:** That was hockey slang. Frogs are freshman. Checks are when you slam someone into the boards during a game.  
  
**Eric:** Hockey is a very violent game.  
  
**Jack:** I saw Blades of Glory. Can you really behead someone with your skates?  
  
**Eric:** You know as well as I do that movie was just made up, Mr. Zimmermann. No one's entering the Olympics in a male-male pair skate anytime soon.  
  
**Jack:** You didn't answer the question.  
  
**Eric:** Oh, you noticed? ::winky emoji::  
  


*

DM From: Jack Zimmermann - @JackZimmerman  
  
**Jack:** Bits. Bitto. Bitowski.  
  
**Eric:** ::confused emoji::  
  
**Jack:** I'm trying to decide what your hockey nickname would be, if you played hockey instead of figure skating.  
  
**Eric:** My mother calls me Dickey.  
  
**Jack:** Nope.  
  
**Eric:** Do you have a hockey nickname?  
  
**Jack:** Not really. Nothing's ever stuck. There's rules about how you get a nickname.  
  
**Eric:** So Google is telling me. I'm surprised no one's ever thought to call you Zimboni or something. ::snow-plow emoji::  
  
**Jack:** So am I.  
  
**Jack:** Bitty.  
  
**Jack:** Because you're small.  
  
**Eric:** I am NOT small. ::angry emoji::  
  
**Jack:** For hockey you are.  
  
**Eric:** I can jump higher on the ice than you can, Mr. Zimmermann.  
  
**Jack:** I don't doubt it.  
  
**Jack:** Eric.  
  


*

DM From: Jack Zimmermann - @JackZimmerman  
  
**Jack:** I forgot, I never sent you the picture I took of you, did I?  
  
**Eric:** Nope.  
  
**Jack:** Sorry. I can't figure out how to upload a picture to Twitter DM.  
  
**Eric:** ::laughing and crying emoji::  
  
**Eric:** Seriously? I can talk you through it.  
  
**Jack:** Well... look, I know it's forward of me, but... could I email it to you? Or if you have WhatsApp?  
  
**Eric:** Really? You can't DM but you can WhatsApp?  
  
**Eric:** Jack Zimmermann, you are ridiculous.  
  
**Eric:** Here's my number.  
  


*

NEW CONTACT  
  
**System Message:** This is a new contact; save or reject number?  
  
**Jack:** Hi, Eric, this is Jack. Here's the photo I took.  
  
****[Image: Bitty and JJ grinning over a cell phone]  
  
**Eric:** Oh! That's really nice.  
  
**Eric:** Are you going to use it?  
  
**Jack:** If you're still okay with it.  
  
**Eric:** Absolutely. When do you turn them all in?  
  
**Jack:** In four days.  
  
**Eric:** That doesn't give you a lot of time to process the photos from Barcelona.  
  
**Eric:** Jack?  
  
**Jack:** Yeah, sorry, got busy. It'll be fine.  
  
**Eric:** You're going to be in Barcelona though, right?  
  
**Eric:** JJ's probably going to win gold, you have to have that for your class. Right?  
  
**Eric:** Jack?  
  


*

Eric noticed the absence during the first practice in Barcelona.

It was not his first time at the Grand Prix Final. He’d participated in the Junior level of the Final his last two years on the Junior Circuit, but he’d only been to the Senior-level final once before, during his first year on the Senior Circuit. That had been two years ago. Being back was exactly as amazing as it’d felt the first time. Only six of them competing, absolutely tiny compared to the clusterfuck of the Four Continents or Worlds, which boasted thirty or so competitors in each division. It was tight and elite and Eric was thrilled to be back, and having gold actually be attainable for once due to Victor Nikiforov no longer competing was the icing on the cake.

He could practically hear his skates singing on the ice as he marked out his short program: _The gold is mine, the gold is mine, the gold is mine_.

Of course, that could have been from everyone _else’s_ skates, too. For the Final, everything was wiped clean. Any of them could win it.

The only fly in the ointment was that he didn’t see Jack hanging around JJ at all.

 _Strange_ , thought Eric. After all, Jack had been a fixture at each of JJ’s events all season, a camera around his neck and lately, a smile for Eric as well. But JJ was there, smiling and confident and cocky as ever, driving tiny Yuri Plisetsky up the proverbial wall and relishing every clench of Plisetsky’s teeth – and Jack was nowhere to be seen.

 _Maybe he’s back at the hotel. Maybe he’s still too jet-lagged. Maybe he’s out sight-seeing_ , thought Eric, and missed his quad Sal.

“Eric!” shouted Sofiya from the side. “Stop distracting yourself!”

Eric shook off the thoughts, and concentrated on his footwork. This time, he landed the Sal perfectly.

“Again!”

 _I’ll ask him afterwards_ , thought Eric, and did his Sal a third time.

But by the time he came off the ice, JJ was gone, Yuuri Katsuki appeared to be bossing around Victor Nikiforov (to Victor Nikiforov’s delight), Sofiya was smirking as if she’d single-handedly destroyed Yakov Feltsman with the power of her hair, and Yuri Plisetsky was screaming about the unfairness of life.

“Do I even want to know?” sighed Eric.

“Paella for lunch, what do you think?” said Sofiya, gloating as she steered Eric out of the arena.

*

“Come to dinner with us!” Phichit had said over the phone that night. “You can meet Yuuri and Victor! We’ll have paella! It’ll be fun!”

Eric knew the internet memes. He really should have known better. “I already had paella,” he said, but went anyway, because Phichit was Phichit and Eric might have known the internet memes but some terrible decisions were better experienced first-hand.

He should have refused. A smarter man would have refused. But Eric never claimed to be smart, which was why he had front-row seats to more TMI in the form of photos from the previous year’s GPF banquet—

(Which explained a great deal about strange memos from the ISF regarding social media posts, and did not excuse Eva from sharing the gossip _one iota_. And she had no excuses, Eric had seen her front and center at some of those photos, gleefully watching every move; he was going to have some strong words for her about that in the morning.)

—not to mention the even more amazing revelation about the matching rings Yuuri and Victor wore but hadn’t mentioned until Victor had waved them in his face for the tenth time in as many minutes.

(Honestly, it was as if Victor thought Eric was a carbon copy of Sofiya, looking for any way to undermine Yakov’s skaters and would happily take a last-minute engagement as a sign of weakness. Which, Eric had to be fair, she probably _would_.)

But when JJ had interrupted with his own announcement – Eric couldn’t get up and leave with everyone else. Even if JJ _had_ been stealing Victor and Yuuri’s thunder, Eric saw the dejected way JJ had watched them go, and he wasn’t going to abandon someone he considered a friend.

“I get why they don’t like me,” said JJ, spinning his glass of pop around on the table, which had been cleared of the dinner and resupplied with bowls of olives and almonds and bottles of pop and sparkling water. “It’s hard to be friends with someone who’s as talented as me.”

Isabella patted JJ on the shoulder sympathetically, but the look she gave Eric was one of amusement, as if she knew very well her fiancé was ridiculous, but wasn’t going to enlighten him.

“I don’t think they don’t like you,” said Eric.

“Not a single one of them congratulated us.”

“I think you were one surprise too many,” said Eric. “ _Pole-dancing_ , JJ?”

JJ at least looked a bit sheepish. “Oh. You found out about that?”

“So did Katsuki,” countered Eric. “He claims he was so drunk he forgot he’d done it.”

JJ looked thoughtful. “Huh. That explains a lot.”

It actually _did_. Mostly. Eric was still a bit sorry he hadn’t been taking pictures of Victor’s spit-take. Sofiya might have relaxed her rule about cell phones for that.

 _Pictures_.

“I would never have believed it,” said Eric, “except for the pictures.” He paused. “Speaking of which, I wanted to ask. Where’s Jack? Still sleeping off the jet lag?”

JJ shook his head. “Nah. He’s not here. Finals or something.”

Eric could barely speak. “Oh.”

_He’s not here?_

_But…_

“I should have told you,” said JJ.

“No,” said Eric, almost shaking. _Why am I shaking? It’s just Jack. It doesn’t matter if he’s here or not – he was never here because of me anyway._ “I don’t care about your cousin. Being here, I mean. Just I thought – you’re going to win, I thought maybe he’d want to photograph that.”

JJ shrugged. “I guess he has enough photographs. Just as well. Having my own photographer was just another reason for them to hate me.”

_It’s hard, when you think you’re alone, to hear what people are really saying and not what you think they’re saying._

Eric leaned closer to JJ. “They don’t hate you.”

JJ shrugged and spun his glass on the table.

Isabella leaned in, too. “They’re jealous,” she said soothingly. “But they don’t _hate_ you. Eric doesn’t hate you.”

“Eric’s not jealous of me,” said JJ, but Eric caught JJ’s worried glance, as if the thought that Eric _might_ hate him was something that had occurred to him before.

 _It’s hard_ , he can hear Jack saying.

“I also don’t hate you,” said Eric firmly. “It’s you and me over Plisetsky, right? I’d look up to you on the podium as easily as you’d look up to me. You’re my _friend_ , JJ. Probably one of the best ones I’ve got. Though I’m still kind of annoyed with you for that trick with the blueberries last year. Those were my _favorite_ sneakers, Mr. Leroy, and it took weeks before my feet stopped smelling like blueberries when I wore them. You know I still shake them out just in case, even when you’re _not_ at a competition.”

JJ giggled. “I’d think smelling like blueberries would be an improvement.”

“Mr. Leroy!” said Eric, mock-affronted, and it felt good when JJ laughed even harder.

“Say it!” demanded JJ.

“Nope, you’ll just make fun of me.”

“ _Please_.”

Eric sighed dramatically. “I do declare, Mr. Leroy.”

JJ nearly fell off his chair. Isabella was alarmed for a moment, but she relaxed with a faintly appreciative smile once JJ settled back down again. JJ looked better than he had – more like his usual brash, overly confident and abrasive self. It almost made saying the horrific phrase worth it.

Eric wondered if Jack had _that_ expression anywhere in his photographs. He hoped so.

“You and me above Plisetsky, right?” confirmed JJ.

“Absolutely,” agreed Eric.

 _You coward,_ he thought accusingly, thinking of the phone burning in his pocket, where his last few DMs to Jack had gone unanswered. _You couldn’t even tell me you wouldn’t be here._

*

DM From: Jack Zimmermann - @JackZimmerman  
  
**Jack:** Good luck tomorrow.  
  


*

In the hotel room, Eric plugged in his phone and stared at the Twitter app.

Jack’s DM had arrived while he, JJ, and Isabella were returning from dinner. The hotel lobby was quiet, except for a party in the lobby restaurant that probably had more than its fair share of coaches and pair skaters. Eric had glanced at the notification, and then kept up his end of the conversation until he reached his room.

 _Good luck_ , Jack had said. As if there wasn’t anything else to say. (Maybe there wasn’t.)

He thought about answering.

In the end, he just went to sleep.

There wasn’t anything he could say, anyway.

*

The short program was a disaster from start to finish, and all for the _stupidest_ of reasons.

It started with Yuuri Katsuki skating the best Eros he’d done to date, still collapsing in disappointment on the ice immediately after, and subsequently getting a smack from the judges by being awarded his lowest official score of the season.

“He shouldn’t have shown disappointment,” said Sofiya, unflinchingly. “It gives the impression that he believed he had failed more than he actually had.”

“Maybe he thinks he did,” said Eric, thinking of Jack’s words.

 _Stop it,_ he told himself angrily. _Stop thinking about Jack. He’s not here. He doesn’t matter._

“Then he’s a fool,” said Sofiya sharply.

Eric knew Sofiya was talking about Katsuki – but it didn’t stop the sudden flush of protective anger anyway.

“He’s _not_ a fool,” snapped Eric. “He just doesn’t know how to _hear_.”

Sofiya stared at Eric. “Yuuri Katsuki is deaf?”

“No! Well – maybe _selectively_ – ugh, let’s _not_ start that rumor.” Eric growled, frustrated. “I don’t know. I have to stretch.”

“Yes,” said Sofiya, still giving him a harsh look. “Clear your mind, too. Don’t go on the ice angry.”

Phichit was up next, but Eric was too annoyed to watch his friend even on the monitors, and by the time he realized Phichit was skating, he’d missed nearly all of it and had to work even harder to get into his own mindset for his skate.

Missing Phichit achieve his dream of skating at the GPF, all because Eric couldn’t stop thinking about a guy who wasn’t even _there_ … that was the second thing to go wrong.

 _Stop it_ , Eric scolded himself as Yuri Plisetsky took the ice. _You’re up next. Get your head in the game. Remember the goal. This gold is mine. This gold is mine. Victor’s gone, and this gold is mine._

It took nearly the entire three and a half minutes of Yuri’s skate to get himself calmed and loose and ready to go, but he got there. By the time he stepped out onto the ice, Eric was ready.

And then the third disaster struck.

“Yuri Plisetsky of Russia has just set a new World Record for the Short Program!”

“Oh, _fuck_ ,” said Eric aloud, but the screaming and applause was so loud that no one could hear him. Even Sofiya looked ready to commit murder.

Somewhere in the bowels of the arena, Eric was sure that JJ was having the same reaction as he was.

_You and me over Plisetsky. Who just set a world record._

_How are we supposed to top that?_

“Ignore it,” said Sofiya through gritted teeth.

“Huh?” said Eric, because the applause was still ringing in his ears.

“You’re better than he is,” said Sofiya. “ _Prove it._ ”

Eric went out onto the ice.

_I’m better than he is. He’s fifteen, he’s got the energy and the jumps and all the time in the world. Except right now, because this time is mine._

The audience was calming down – and Eric could hear his name being called. Could see the American flags being waved. Could feel the giddy support, high from the joy of having seen a world record broken, eager to see what Eric had up his sleeve, how he’d top what they’d just experienced.

_I’m better than he is. I can hear them shouting my name._

_…Is that what Jack meant, when he talked about people shouting his name?_

_What does he hear when he they shout his?_

_What is he not hearing instead?_

The music started. The rev of a car engine, and then the fast-paced, up-beat tempo that went perfectly with Eric’s power-house program.

But it wasn’t all Eric could hear. Maybe Jack and JJ and Katsuki couldn’t hear the love from the crowd – but now, Eric could hear that and everything else besides.

He could hear the rustling of programs, the slurp of pops through straws. The way the audience shook their bags of popcorn, the crinkling of the paper on the bouquets of roses they’d throw onto the ice.

The gasps as Eric two-footed his axel, the smattering of applause when he finished his step sequence. The whistles when he went from his combination spin into an arabesque into his combination jump, and when his music ended in a crescendo shortly after his quad, he heard them call out his name over the music, stamping their feet, shoving and laughing and talking and coughing and sneezing and hooting and all the other noises that an audience made, drowning out even Eric’s music and his own thoughts.

Eric hit his final pose a second too soon and wanted to scream in frustration. The crowd screamed as they applauded, all too happy and excited to have watched… whatever it was he’d just shown them.

Sofiya waited by the boards, ready to give him a hug and lead him to the Kiss-and-Cry, just as she always did.

Eric had never in his _life_ wanted to sprint right by her and run straight to his phone, because of all the people in the stands and the people who’d supported him in his career… from Sofiya to his parents to his first coach, Katya, surely watching from home. None of them were the person he wanted to hear from the most.

Jack wasn’t even _there_.

Eric was in second. Far above Katsuki. Far below Plisetsky.

“You can still get him,” said Sofiya, but Eric was beyond hearing.

“Right,” he said, and the moment he could, he was racing for the bathrooms, with a brief pit-stop by his bag to grab his phone.

*

There was a bathroom as far from the ice as it was possible to be. Eric could still hear the roar of the crowd, but it was faint, and when he locked the stall door and collapsed on the toilet seat, shaking as he clutched his phone in his hands, he could almost pretend it was just the water rushing through the pipes that surrounded him.

He stared at the phone in his hand. Otabek Altin of Kazakhstan would be skating now; JJ would follow him. Eric knew he should go and support JJ – at least _one_ of them needed to get within striking distance of Yuri’s score or they’d be screwed for the free skate. Eric wouldn’t be able to bridge the distance, not if he skated his absolute best with his most difficult elements.

But JJ could.

Instead of leaving the bathroom, Eric unlocked his phone and stared at the blinking numbers steadily rising with the incoming text messages from friends and family. _Congratulations_ , they’d say. _Great job_. _We’re so proud of you. We knew you could do it! Second place is fantastic!_

Second place with two skaters to go. Eric wouldn’t be in second place for long.

It wasn’t even a surprise when the phone started to ring.

 _Mom_ , his phone said.

Eric answered it.

“Dickey!” Suzanne Bittle’s voice was warm and pleased and loud in Eric’s ear, as clear as if she were talking from the next stall instead of the other side of the world. “We’re so proud of you—”

“Mom.” Eric could hear the break in his voice, and hated it. “I screwed up.”

“Oh, baby. No, you didn’t.”

“Yes, I did,” insisted Eric.

“Okay, maybe you wobbled a _little_ —”

“A _little_!” Eric’s voice began to rise. “Mom. I two-footed a landing and I shorted a rotation and I nearly tripped over my own feet. I was _awful_. I was so bad, Sofiya couldn’t even tell me how bad I was!”

“Honey, she never tells you straight away—”

“I was supposed to do better, Mom! I’ve been working all season – I’ve been working my entire _life_. I left you and Coach and my _home_ so I could do better. For _five years_ , Mom. And all I have to show for it is second place?”

He was shouting now, his voice echoing in the tiled bathroom. His eyes were hot and leaking tears; he was shaking so hard he had to stand or risk falling into the toilet.

“Now, Dickey,” said Suzanne, strong and fantastic and his mother, “second place is nothing to be ashamed of, especially when first place just set a world record.”

“ _It was supposed to be me!_ ” Eric yelled into the phone. “ _My world record, Mom_. I was supposed to set it! Not some fifteen-year-old punk in his first Senior-level competition! _Why wasn’t that me?_ ”

The only sound in the bathroom was Eric’s breath coming hard. The only sound over the phone was Suzanne’s silence, until she broke it with a quiet word.

“Because it wasn’t, Dickey,” she said, gentle and firm. “And that’s okay. There’ll always be other competitions and records to set.”

Eric choked back a sob. “I just want to make you proud of me.”

“Oh, my sweetheart,” sighed Suzanne. “We _are_ proud of you. We’re proud of you to bits.”

_Bits. Bitsy. Bitty._

Jack’s nicknames came flooding back, and Eric had to stifle the almost hysterical laughter. “Mom, that’s terrible.”

“What? It’s true.”

And maybe it was just by thinking about Jack – but this time, when Eric heard his WhatsApp notification go, he pulled the phone from his ear to look at it.

Jack Zimmermann  
  
**Jack:** You did great!  
  


Eric can just hear his mother’s voice over the speaker. “Now, there’s nothing you can do to change what he did. The only thing you can change is what you do about it.”

_Sometimes it’s hard to hear what people are saying over the voices in your head._

Eric pulled the phone back up. “Mom, I have to call you back,” he said. “I hear you. I just… I have to see if someone else heard me, too.”

“But you’re okay, right, Dickey?” asked Suzanne, worried. “Oh, I knew I should have come out for this…”

“Mom, it’s fine,” Eric interrupted her. “I’m going to see you in a few days anyway. And I’ll have a medal of _some_ color to hang around your neck, I promise.”

Suzanne laughed. “Okay, Dickey-bird. I love you.”

“Love you too, Mom.”

The words were barely out of his mouth before he pressed his fingers against the screen so hard the impression remained for a split second, and he realized he hadn’t pressed out a text reply to Jack.

He’d pressed the _Call_ button, and the phone was ringing to Jack on the other side of the world.

“Eric,” said Jack, sounding surprised.

“Great,” said Eric, already breathing so hard that his chest was heaving with effort. “ _Great_. You think I did _great_. You don’t talk to me for _three fucking days_ , Jack, and all you can say is that I did _great_?”

“Uh—”

“I know you don’t know figure skating from speed skating,” said Eric, as the anger rose and dripped from his words like melting icicles, “but I did _not_ do great. I had the chance of a lifetime to get a Grand Prix Final gold medal – a _gold medal_ , Jack. Something no one on the Senior Circuit has managed to do in the last five years because Victor Nikiforov’s taken home every single one of them. Do you even understand that? It’s been so long since someone else has won it, they’ve all _retired_. And I _fucked up_.”

He waited, sure that Jack was going to say something. But all he could hear from the other side was Jack’s steady breathing.

Eric closed his eyes and tried not to burst into tears. “And I screwed it up. I’m never going to get that gold medal now. Yuri Plisetsky’s got it, and he’s fifteen. Do you know where I was when I was fifteen? I was in Georgia, freaking out because my parents wanted to move to Madison where there weren’t any figure skating coaches, where the only option I’d have had to stay on the ice was to switch to co-ed non-contact hockey. It’s pure _luck_ that I’m still in figure skating at all, because everyone believed I could do this, I could be fantastic. And I failed them, Jack. I failed them _so big_ tonight.

“And all anyone can say is how I did _great_. It’s _not_ great, Jack. I screwed up and I left home and I miss my mom and I miss Georgia and I miss being able to cook the way I want with the ingredients I want and I miss not having to figure how to substitute Russian flour for American all-purpose and I hate Russian grocery stores, they never put anything where you think it should be and it’s cold all the time and everyone laughs at the way I speak Russian with a Southern accent and Christmas isn’t even on the right _date_ here, Jack, and the last time I threw a party they drank all the vodka I use for pie crusts and I don’t even have a gold medal to show for it and I _know_ how stupid that sounds but—”

“Okay,” said Jack. He sounded calm, and determined, and the exact opposite of what Eric was feeling just then. “I hear you.”

Eric stops in his tracks. “I—”

“Okay,” said Jack, as if he was making a decision.

And then he hung up.

Eric stared at the phone, the emotions still swirling in his chest, his hand still shaking.

 _Call to Jack Zimmerman_ , said his WhatsApp. _Four minutes, 13 seconds._

And all Jack could say was _okay_.

Eric nearly threw the phone at the wall.

At the last minute, he just didn’t let go, but slammed his closed hand against the stall divider, rattling every door in its hinges and bruising his knuckles.

He also cracked the corner of his phone.

Somehow, he wasn’t sure that made it better.

*

It was only when he emerged that he found out what had happened to JJ while he’d been in the bowels of the arena, cussing out JJ’s cousin over the internet.

“Oh, no,” groaned Eric, and because there was no conceivable way that the day could have ended any worse, decided to let Phichit drag him out on the town, where they ended up in a bar while Phichit’s coach and a random Japanese lady traded shots.

It was near midnight when Phichit turned to him and said, “You know you’re in third place, right?”

Eric sat up a bit. “Oh. I… forgot?”

Phichit rolled his eyes and snagged one of Celestino’s shot glasses. “You need this more than he does.”

“He’s half on the floor,” Eric pointed out. “I didn’t know Japanese ladies could hold their liquor that well.”

“That’s incredibly racist and also probably what Celestino was thinking,” said Phichit as he stole a shot glass from the Japanese lady, who was not nearly as bad off as Celestino but certainly beyond the point where she could reliably count. “Bottoms up!”

Three shot glasses later, Eric pulled out his phone again. The crack wasn’t really _that_ big. His knuckles really weren’t _that_ bruised.

And four minutes and thirteen seconds… was still shorter than his free skate. It didn’t seem like enough.

 _Jack Zimmerman, last seen online six hour ago_ , said WhatsApp. Shortly after Eric had yelled at him. Eric winced.

 _Hey_ , he texted to Jack. _I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have yelled at you. You didn’t deserve that._

One check mark…

It didn’t go to two marks. Eric frowned and wondered if Jack had turned off his phone.

Well. He’d get it eventually, figured Eric, and when Phichit gave him another shot glass, he downed it without thinking.

“I’m going to regret this in the morning,” said Eric.

“Yup,” agreed Phichit. “Yolo, my friend. Yolo.”

*

Eric regretted it bitterly in the morning.

 _You only live once, sure,_ he thought as he crawled into the bathroom. _And thank God, because if I made that mistake in my next life, too, I’d deserve every hangover I got. That is the last time I listen to Phichit. At least I can’t feel any worse than I do now._

Except, as it turned out, he could. Because when Eric finally dragged himself back to his bed and checked his messages, there was one message from Sofiya telling him he was late for the day’s skating practice.

And nothing at all from Jack.

*

Eric was calm again when the Men’s Free Skate began. Calm… or numb. He wasn’t sure which.

For all that the Short Program had been rife with disaster – somehow, the day of the Free Skate dawned perfectly. Eric woke five minutes before his alarm; just enough time to shake the sleep off and practice a bit of deep breathing before he needed to get out of the bed. He was relaxed and rested, but getting dressed, finding his meal voucher, going down to locate breakfast – it felt rote, as if he was just following a script and waiting for the dinosaurs to come stomping in to start the action. Even laughing with Phichit and Otabek (who wasn’t laughing so much as he was looking polite while Phichit laughed) about some stupid picture in the international paper about a duck trying to cross the road felt strange and rehearsed.

When he went out for a quick walk by the water, the air was cold and bracing, just crisp enough to be invigorating – but Eric couldn’t feel it. The sun was bright, the traffic wasn’t oppressive, but Eric returned feeling just as untethered as he had when he began.

 _I just need to get on the ice_ , Eric said to himself as he and Sofiya returned to the arena that evening. _I just need to hear my music and remember why I’m skating. This is just my way of coping with the stress. Maybe it’s easier this way – I mean, look at Katsuki and Nikiforov, they both look like the worst cases of walking indigestion ever recorded._

“Hmm,” said Sofiya as Eric warmed up in the green room. “He’s not here.”

“Who?” asked Eric.

“JJ’s minion.”

There was a brief moment when Eric thought he might have been angry. Any other day – and he could have been.

But today? He can’t even get up enough emotion to be annoyed. “You mean his cousin, Jack? With the camera?”

Sofiya’s eyes narrowed, as if she was pondering what might set him off. “Yes,” she said carefully.

“He has finals,” said Eric, turning back into his stretch.

“Great,” said Sofiya flatly. “Then maybe you’ll stop moping, since his absence has absolutely nothing to do with you.”

“ _Moping_?” Eric sits up so fast he’s almost dizzy – but the faint smirk on Sofiya’s face is too self-satisfied. “I’m not moping. I couldn’t care _less_ about whether or not Jack Zimmermann is here.”

“Uh-huh.” Sofiya didn’t sound like she believed it. “In that case, stop looking at JJ like he’s already failed and start concentrating on not failing yourself.”

Eric’s mouth dropped open in a near-silent squeak – but the idea that Sofiya might be _right_ sent him straight back into his stretch.

 _She’s just trying to pump me up and get me focused_ , he told himself. _She doesn’t mean it._

But JJ _did_ look like he’d already failed, and every time Eric looked at him, he felt the numbness start to ebb away.

 _That stupid deal we made_ , thought Eric miserably. _I need to talk to him. I need to tell him it doesn’t matter._

With Sofiya on his heels, there wasn’t time to talk to JJ before they took to the ice for their group warm-up. Eric could see JJ scanning the crowd nervously – no doubt looking for Isabella – and later on, trying to flag Eric to slow down nearby, probably for a word.

With Sofiya’s eyes on him, Eric didn’t dare stop, though he did smile in what he hoped was an encouraging manner.

Maybe not encouraging enough: JJ’s skate wasn’t fantastic, but it was enough for the judges to give him a good score. Eric watched and listened to the audience and hoped it would be enough for JJ, too.

Phichit came next.

For as long as Eric had known Phichit, he’d known that Phichit wanted to skate to _The King and the Skater_. The entire skating community knew that, just as they’d known about Yuuri Katsuki’s fanboy obsession with Victor, just as they’d known that JJ wanted to win it all.

Eric watched Phichit burst into tears as the crowd cheered for him, another dream achieved, and tried to grab hold of the good feeling before it could slip between his fingers.

Yuuri Katsuki was next to skate.

“You should be warming up,” said Sofiya.

“I know,” said Eric, and watched the television screens anyway.

Two weeks ago, he’d watched this skate, his heart in this throat. Now Eric watched it again on the television screens, and this time…

 He closed his eyes, unable to continue. It had nothing to do with Katsuki – and everything to do with Katsuki, too. Because watching Katsuki skate it, knowing that Victor was waiting on the side, that they were in love and getting married and going to support each other for the rest of their lives…

Eric had never paid much attention to Yuuri Katsuki before. He was the sole top representation of his country on the figure skating circuit. Just like Eric.

Katsuki had left his home to pursue his craft and stayed in unfamiliar territory, surrounded by strangers, learning new skills in a new language. Just like Eric.

He was one of many internationally ranked skaters who were out of the closet, proving he had the chops to play with everyone else. Just like Eric.

And today, he was going to win his gold, win his reputation, and win the heart of the guy he’d fallen in love with over a patch of ice…

There was absolutely no reason for Eric to be so fascinated by or jealous of Yuuri Katsuki.

After all, they were nothing at all alike.

*

“Is it time to go up?” Eric said.

“Yes,” said Sofiya.

Eric didn’t see the quad flip – though he heard about it afterwards. He was only barely cognizant when Katsuki’s scores initially came in… until he heard the familiar phrase:

_New World Record…_

Eric wanted to laugh right there on the ice.

_Oh good Lord… if that ain’t a kick in the pants right when I needed it most._

And then he saw him.

Jack.

Sitting in the stands closest to the skaters’ section, standing in the aisle staring straight at Eric.

Eric’s heart lodged in his throat.

“Oh my God,” he whispered, but already Sofiya was on the sidelines waving at him, and the lights were flashing to indicate that he was running out of time.

Jack was there.

Jack was in the audience.

Eric spun around and went straight for center ice, skidding to a halt and taking his position – which unfortunately kept his back to Jack, and Eric couldn’t remember if he’d seen a camera around Jack’s neck or not.

He was pretty sure the answer was _or not_.

All Eric’s life, all he’d ever really wanted was to make his parents proud of him. To be an athlete his father could admire. To be the artist his mother thought he already was.

Maybe it was a season for everyone getting exactly what they wanted, or better.

Phichit had wanted to skate his favorite music, and ended up skating it to worldwide acclaim.

JJ had wanted to win everything – and thanks to Isabella, had won something better.

Yuuri Katsuki had wanted redemption and apparently for Victor Nikiforov to coach him.

Eric didn’t realize it, but what he’d wanted was _this_.

[The music had been reworked from when Eric first heard it on the radio](https://youtu.be/kYAh5NTyQuI), so long ago the words have imprinted himself on his soul. It wasn’t Beyoncé, but Eric almost liked the reworked version better: the voice is sweet and full of longing, the music delicate and somehow more evocative than the original.

And Jack was watching.

Eric skated – and with each element, felt himself coming back to life, the warmth moving through every limb, every stretch of his arm, every turn of his head. The warmth turned into happiness. The happiness turned into joy, into relief, into excitement – and when Eric came to a stop at the end of his program, he could hardly believe that four and a half minutes had passed.

The applause was tremendous; Eric broke from his final pose, staring in amazement as he spun. His chest heaved; his eyes teared up. Everything was a blur….

 _Bow_ , he could hear Sofiya say as if on his shoulder. Eric did, and when he looked back up at the crowd, he could see Jack in every open aisle, smiling back at him, surrounding him.

He was there. Even if Eric knew it wasn’t really him in every corner – he was there. Somewhere. Eric was sure of it.

“You were wonderful,” Sofiya whispered in his ear when Eric made his way to the side.

“I don’t remember it,” said Eric, dazed.

_Did I really see Jack?_

_Or was it a dream?_

“You’d have the world record if it weren’t for Katsuki,” said Sofiya, her arm around Eric when the scores came in.

“Oh well,” said Eric. “Next time.”

Sofiya shook her head, and pulled him to where the reporters are congregated. Katsuki was still there, a relieved, somewhat baffled expression on his face.

“—I’m not sure I _planned_ it, exactly. It just happened – oh. Eric Bittle,” Katsuki said awkwardly, turning to Eric. He gave a small bow. “I am told you would have had the world record if I had not just set it. Congratulations.”

Eric wanted to burst into hysterical laughter.

_All season long, all I wanted was the gold medal you’re about to earn._

“Thank you,” said Eric easily. “Your skate was beautiful.”

“As was yours,” said Katsuki, blushing a bit. “Perhaps you will be on the podium with me.”

There was movement at the back of the room; Eric’s eyes were drawn to it immediately, and when he saw Jack, out of breath and one lock of hair falling in front of his eyes, his heart stopped in his chest.

“Oh,” said Eric. “Um. Excuse me. I have… a… thing… uh… _bye_!”

The problem with figure skating was that it only involved a single athelete; Eric had never had to dodge anyone in his entire sports career. Trying to dodge a scrum of reporters, all with notebooks and recorders and cameras and booms and extra lights and cords – really, it was a miracle that Eric managed to make it to the other side of the room without apologizing to more of them as he knocked into sensitive equipment and stepped on people’s toes and accidentally shoved the BBC reporter into the ESPN reporter, which also sent the EuroSport cameraman flying.

Jack was laughing when Eric finally got to him, out of breath and almost frantic.

“Maybe it’s a good thing you never played hockey,” said Jack, catching Eric before he collapsed. “If that’s how you get out of a melee.”

“Oh, shut up and kiss me, Mr. Zimmerman,” said Eric.

And Jack Zimmermann did exactly that.

*

Instagram Post, 3 hours ago, 125K likes

[Image: Jack Zimmermann and Eric Bittle, wrapped in each other’s arms, grinning and relaxed and with a bronze medal hanging around Eric’s neck. They’re smiling so hard at each other, they might not actually get around to the kiss that’s only millimeters away.]

 **phichit+chu** Some people don’t need a gold medal for their happy ending. (Hint hint, @v-nikiforov!)

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, Eric has taken Chris’s place in the season. Sorry, Chris.
> 
> Yes, I know that in the show, it’s the Trophée de France. And it would have been in the 2016-2017 season. But I decided that for the purposes of this fic (and Eric’s age) that this would be during the 2015-2016 season, when it was the Trophée Eric Bompard. Also I got a joke out of it, so.
> 
> Yes, I used [the short program from 1992 movie The Cutting Edge](https://youtu.be/FPFBeyIHsPw) for Eric’s short program. I regret nothing.
> 
> Yes, I used (an alternate version of) Beyonce’s Halo for Eric’s free skate. It’s a lovely version from the new ice skating Cirque show, go watch the video, you won’t regret it. Incidentally, Eric totally did Beyonce’s Single Ladies for his exhibition. For reasons. When he sees it, Victor laughs hard enough that he forgets to breathe.
> 
> Thanks to CodenameCarrot and La_Temperanza for writing [this tutorial](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6434845) on how to make the text messaging skin (which has the bonus of being visible even if you download the fic to an e-reader). Yay!


End file.
